


Suppose

by secooper87



Category: A Little Princess - Frances Hodgson Burnett, Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fantasy, Timey-Wimey, Whimsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:59:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secooper87/pseuds/secooper87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Edwardian London, after being chased and shot down by Torchwood, the Doctor finds himself saved by a little girl who knows an extraordinary amount about alien worlds.  He struggles to figure out: who and what is Sara?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I forgot to post this story up on Archive Of Our Own! I wrote it a while ago, and it's a wonderful little story. Enjoy it!

Our story begins on a dreadfully cold winter's night in the middle of London, in a square lined with a series of dull, brick houses. It was one of those nights when rain kept threatening to fall, yet never quite seemed to get up the nerve. Instead, it satisfied itself by letting the wind chill all passersby to the bones.

Sara Crew had been out on such nights, back when she had been nothing more than a poor scullery drudge at Miss Minchin's Select Seminary for Young Ladies. Now, from the comfort of her own home with Mr. Tom Carrisford (whom she called Uncle Tom), Sara sat, warm and well-fed, staring out the window.

Behind Sara, within the comfy little drawing room, was Mr. Carmichael, the father of the Large Family, who had come over to discuss affairs with Uncle Tom. Usually, Mr. Carmichael was accompanied by other members of the Large Family — Nora, Janet, and Donald generally being the first to jump at the opportunity — but the night had been so dreadful that Mr. Carmichael had insisted that they stay at home.

At the moment, the square was empty, and Sara was staring at the abandoned street with a curious, thoughtful look on her face. It was a look that often graced the face of young Sara Crewe, for there had never been a time when Sara had not been thinking odd things about the world and the people who shared it with her. Sara Crewe was rather an odd little girl in many ways, and this was certainly one of them. Sara sometimes sat for hours, staring out the window, wondering about the people who passed by. She called it "supposing", and it had always been one of her favorite pastimes. She tried to imagine what it would be like to step into other people's shoes, to live their lives and dream their dreams. And whenever she saw a particularly forlorn or miserable figure, she nearly always rushed outside and tried to offer them some comfort — a warm place to rest a while, or something to eat, or even just the distraction of a well-told story.

Sara was thinking, on that night, as she stared out of the window, about how odd it was that the world always felt so calm and peaceful just before something dreadful happened. She wondered if this were one of those moments, and if so, what dreadful event it portended.

She did not have to wait long.

From one end of the alley, a figure suddenly appeared, darting through the streets as if he were a stampeding horse. He was clothed very oddly, in a tight-fitting suit covered in pinstripes, and wearing garish red-colored shoes that were made of cloth instead of leather. Sara peered through the darkness, and she thought she could see something sticking out of his back — no, several somethings. They looked like the darts that her Papa had shown her back in India, the ones he warned her never to touch, because they would make her fall asleep. Sara wondered why the man in the street had not yet fallen asleep.

Pursuing the man was a small group of properly attired people — two men and a woman — who were carrying guns larger than any Sara had ever seen. Her Papa had been a hunter and a soldier, and he had shown her his rifles and firearms. She had always thought that no weapons could be more deadly than her papa's. And yet, for some reason, this group was armed with even more terrible weapons, and were pointing them — at the man!

Sara wondered why the man was being pursued. There was something very odd about the man, Sara thought, something besides his clothes or his behavior. There was something within him that reminded Sara of Emily — a fact which, alone, would have made her take notice of him, even if he had been strolling down the street at his own leisure.

At that moment, the man's pursuers began yelling at him, which prompted the oddly dressed man to shout a reply as he kept running. Both of these responses were lost to Sara, who could hear nothing but the quiet hum of the two gentlemen's voices behind her, and the soft crackle of the fire. Then the oddly dressed man slowed, quite suddenly, as if only just realizing that he was in a square and had nowhere else to run. He turned around to face the pursuing group. By some surprising coincidence — or had it really been coincidence? — the man had stopped right outside of Sara's house.

The man was backing up, very slowly, his hands raised in a sign of surrender. His pursuers moved forwards, menacingly, thrusting their guns in his direction. Sara noticed that, although the man now appeared completely helpless, his pursuers were still approaching him with extreme caution, as if the man were a tiger, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Perhaps their trepidation was caused by the fact that the oddly dressed man did not appear at all frightened of them.

Sara had seen this reaction to fearlessness before. She had faced it herself, on many occasions, back when she was at Miss Minchin's.

"When people are insulting you," Sara remembered telling Emily, on one of those dark winter's nights when she had slept up in the attic of Miss Minchin's Seminary, "there is nothing so good for them as not to say a word — just to look at them and _think_. Miss Minchin turns pale with rage when I do it, Miss Amelia looks frightened, and so do the girls."

In the days that followed Sara's first encounter with the oddly dressed man, Sara would never know why she did what she did next. Was it the Magic calling to her, that Magic that never quite let those worst things happen? Or was it because Sara had felt something the moment she saw the man, as if he were a kindred spirit? Perhaps it was simply because Sara was Sara, and she could not stop herself from helping those who were in distress. But whatever was the reason, Sara was on her feet and running even before she heard the crack of gunfire.

Sara ran, as fast as her little legs could carry her, out the front door. Then, seeing the fallen and crumpled form of the oddly dressed man lying still against the cobblestones, Sara threw herself across him, forcing tears into her eyes.

"Oh, Uncle George!" she cried. "My dear, sweet Uncle George! What has happened to you?"

It must be mentioned, at this point in the narrative, that Sara never cried. True grief, Sara felt, was too deep for tears, and too important to be made light of with yelling and noise. Sara had felt true grief before. She had lost her entire family, been forced into poverty with nothing to look forward to but slavery and servitude. This small scuffle was certainly not an event that would normally have warranted her tears. However, Sara was quite a clever child for her age. She knew that grown-ups often took pity on little girls who were in tears. Considering her audience was armed with very dangerous looking guns, she used this knowledge to her full advantage.

Sara looked down into the soft, brown eyes of the man she was holding, and tried to send him comfort and good wishes with her own eyes. But she didn't know whether or not she had succeeded, for at that moment, the man gave a soft groan, and fell into unconsciousness.

Mr. Carmichael and Uncle Tom, who had both heard the shot and noticed Sara's sudden dash from the room, began to pursue her, quickly. Uncle Tom, who was still infirm despite his steady recovery, relied upon the assistance of Ram Dass to make it to the door. Mr. Carmichael, however, was outside in an instant.

"Oh, you beastly, beastly people," Sara was shouting through her fake tears. "We have been expecting poor Uncle George all evening, and you hunted him down as if he were no more than an animal!"

"What's all this about?" demanded Mr. Carmichael, speaking as much to Sara as to the three well-dressed people behind her. Mr. Carmichael was perplexed by Sara's behavior. He had certainly seen her leap out of the house to defend strangers before, but she had never before put herself directly in the path of loaded firearms. Did she know this man she was defending? Surely, she must. Why else would she risk her own life to try and save him?

Mr. Carmichael looked back at the small group, and a spark of memory ignited in his mind. Torchwood. As always, Sara had been correct to defend him. Mr. Carmichael had had a number of clients who had gotten into scrapes with this particular covert task force before. Torchwood were always heavy-handed, and always insisted that they were above both the law and the police. Mr. Carmichael had quickly learned to stand up for anyone pursued by Torchwood.

"As Mr. George Crewe's solicitor," said Mr. Carmichael, automatically adopting the name that Sara had given to the unconscious man, "I should very much like to know the charges against him. I believe" — a little coldly — "it is customary to be tried by a jury of one's peers in this country."

This seemed to upset the Torchwood Agents quite a lot.

"He's not a man, so he has no rights," said the woman. "He's an alien."

"I should say so," boomed Uncle Tom's voice — in a way that should have been impossible for a man of his poor health. "He is from India, after all. And so am I. And so is little Sara here. Would you shoot us down as well simply because we were born overseas?"

"As I recall," said Mr. Carmichael, "there has been quite a controversy recently about whether or not the King should cut off your funding. After all, King Edward never agreed with his mother's superstitions, and funding a ghost-hunting organization is hardly a worthwhile investment. My clients have much influence in particular circles, and their testimony would be more than enough to shut you down for good."

The Torchwood Team was beginning to retreat, but the woman was still having none of it. "That alien is our property," she insisted. "His devious criminal activities led Queen Victoria to banish him from the Empire forty years ago, and he returned knowing full-well what the consequences would be. We, therefore, reserve the right to do whatever we please with him."

Mr. Carmichael gave them a wry smile. "Forty years ago?" he asked. "My dear lady, the man can't be a day over thirty-five! He could hardly have committed these heinous crimes prenatally. This is clearly a case of mistaken identity. Now, let Mr. Crewe go free, and hope that we do not press charges for the damage you have inflicted upon an innocent British subject."

The Torchwood Team mumbled something that none of the others could quite make out, but eventually the team did turn around and begin to leave. The woman looked back, and gave Mr. Carmichael a glare that meant that she was not planning to let the matter drop. Mr. Carmichael returned it with a confident smile, knowing that she didn't have a leg to stand on. He went towards Sara.

"Careful, Sara," he said, quietly. He could detect the smell of scorched flesh in the air, although the man's clothes did not appear to be burnt, and he wondered precisely what kind of gun the Torchwood Team had fired. Mr. Carmichael had heard from clients that Torchwood liked to use technology that seemed almost magical in its sophistication, although they generally used it for harmful purposes. He checked the man's pulse, and found it was racing. Whatever the weapon had done to him had clearly made the man very ill. "We must get him inside. This cold will do him no favors. Ram Dass!"

Ram Dass and Mr. Carmichael maneuvered the unconscious man inside the house, and laid him on the couch. Once the door was closed and all was secured, the adults discovered Sara crouched by the couch, the unconscious man's hand in her own. She was studying him, very intently, her curious green eyes examining his face as if he were a puzzle she was trying to piece together.

"Do you know him, Sara?" asked Uncle Tom.

Sara did not reply. She just frowned, and continued studying the face intently.

"I trust that I am safe in saying that this is _not_ , in fact, your 'Dear Uncle George'," said Mr. Carmichael.

"No," said Sara. She stared at him harder, her brow creasing. "I've never met him before. I've never even seen him. And yet…" she pushed a strand of hair out of his face. "There's something about him, something I recognize. I feel that I _should_ know him. I feel it's my job to keep him safe."

"Sara," said Uncle Tom, as he sat down by the fire, the weariness of his malady finally catching up with him. "Who is he?"

"He is the beginning and the end," whispered Sara.

"What does that mean?" asked Mr. Carmichael.

"I don't know," said Sara, very seriously, looking up at them. "But you must never tell him. It's a secret."


	2. An Unexpected Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're familiar with my stories, you'll know that things are never quite as simple as they first seem...
> 
> * * *

When the Doctor woke up, he didn't know quite where he was. He half expected to find himself in a Torchwood cell or strapped to a dissection table, but he felt quite warm and comfy. The room smelled of old wood and spiced tea. He could feel a mattress underneath his fingertips. No, not Torchwood. He tried to jog his memory. He thought he could vaguely remember something happening right after the Torchwood Agents had shot him — some sort of commotion just before he passed out. He remembered big, curious green eyes looking down into his own. But he could not remember anything else. He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep, and tried to gain more information about his surroundings.

There were two voices in the room, both female. One was clearly a little girl — the Doctor could hear her sometimes sucking her thumb as she listened. The other seemed far older, wiser, with a smooth and even voice, as if she were lost in a land of her own. And perhaps this older, wiser girl was, indeed, for she appeared to be in the process of telling a story.

"It's up in the clouds, Lottie," said the older girl. "So very far up, so that not even you or I could see it. And everybody's happy there. There are beautiful parades, down the shining streets. They are floating parades, you see, because no one ever has to walk there. They drift down the street, and you can see the women's long, flowing golden-hemmed gowns trailing off in the wind. And the children all run around, showering the others in lilies and rose petals, and when they cry out, their voices are soft and beautiful, like the sounds of a harp."

"Ath Croosh Anawah," said the Doctor, opening his eyes.

Both children started at the interruption. They turned, and the Doctor found himself staring at two very charmingly attired little girls. One appeared to be about eight, with a round, plump little face and curly blonde hair. She was no longer sucking her thumb.

The other was a girl of around twelve. She was tall for her age, and quite thin, sporting long black hair that curled only at the tips, and a set of large, curious green eyes. The eyes were, perhaps, the most striking feature about her. They were eyes that seemed out of place for such a young person — eyes that had seen and felt too much. They were eyes that spoke of a wisdom that transcended her years.

"Ath Croosh Anawah," repeated the Doctor. "Also known, in some sectors of the Tranguion Galaxy as the Planet Heaven. Upper tiers of the planet are composed of beautiful, giant floating platforms. Ethereal, cloudlike, pleasant-smelling. Absolutely astonishing in terms of architecture and engineering. Makes it look like the perfect society, that's why they called it heaven. Course, it's not all like that. Not if you notice all the people not on the floating platforms. All the real work is done in labor camps at the bottom, you see — an entire society with nothing to look forward to except starvation, slavery, and servitude." He said this last bit with a sort of coldness that he hadn't really meant to use around the children. It was the coldness that seeped into his voice whenever he found some injustice he had to correct. He looked over at the two girls. "But that's at least half a universe away. How'd you hear about that, then?"

The older girl, the one with the curious eyes, was looking at him with a half smile on her face. The little one, on the other hand, looked on the point of tears. She was staring at the Doctor in a sort of horrified fascination. She gave a little sniff. "Sara, is heaven really like that? Do they have little girls who sleep in attics and have to work all day?" She looked at the older girl, and suddenly burst into tears.

The elder girl — Sara — promptly sprang to life, rushing towards the younger child and cradling her in her arms. "Hush, hush, Lottie," said Sara. "Don't cry for your Mama Sara. If you are very quiet, I will tell you another story."

"Will you?" asked Lottie.

Sara laughed. "Yes," she said. "Now, let me tell you about the mermaids." And she began to launch into an elaborate tale of beautiful mermaids swimming through lagoons, and all the little mermaids who played with kelp and pretended to be grown ups, so they could sneak into the adult's parties.

The Doctor probably should have appreciated the story for what it was — an invention of an idealistic young child's imagination — but he was thrown by the little details that Sara kept dropping into her narrative. The way the mermaids moved and swam through the water seemed to be consistent with the sorts of movements found on higher gravity planets. And the times at which they played and went to bed, along with the way in which she described the light shining through the crests of the waves above their heads — they all seemed to be consistent for the tidal patterns of a planet with three moons. That was odd. Very odd indeed.

As the story went on, the Doctor began to recognize the planet. He had visited the place centuries ago — a small water planet towards the center of the Milky Way galaxy. He couldn't remember mermaids, but he had met a chess-playing octopus and a race of super-intelligent algae. He had been there to stop an Earth-based corporation in the distant future from dumping toxic waste into the water. Not that any of those details made it into Sara's story.

Eventually, it was time for Lottie to leave, and Sara led Lottie out of the room. A tall, Indian-looking man entered the room, and, noticing that the Doctor was awake, gave him a salaam.

The Doctor returned the greeting. "Terribly sorry," he said in Hindustani. "Don't suppose you could tell me the date?"

The Indian man looked surprised, although whether from the Doctor's knowledge of his language or his strange request, the Doctor could not be sure. The man introduced himself as Ram Dass — a lascar from India, who served the Sahib and Missee Sahib — and told the Doctor the date (although, much to the Doctor's consternation, not the year). He said that Missee Sahib had been very worried about him, and had been staying by his bedside, hoping that he would get better soon. Missee Sahib, he said, had a kind heart, and she always felt affection towards those in distress.

"That's very good of her," said the Doctor. He was currently attired in his shirt sleeves and his suit pants, but he could see his tie, overcoat, and trench coat folded neatly on the table beside him. He put his hands into his trouser pockets, and found all his personal items still where he left them. "No stripy pajamas — not even a Satsuma this time," he muttered. Then, in a louder voice, he said, "Tell me, Ram Dass, this Missee Sahib — that would be Sara, yes?"

Ram Dass nodded.

"Tell me about Sara," said the Doctor.

And so Ram Dass told him about how Sara had grown up in India, and had been very rich, until her papa had died, leaving her orphaned and penniless, living as little more than a slave to a cruel, worldly woman named Miss Minchin. He told the Doctor about the fairy story that came true, and how Mr. Tom Carrisford had found and adopted Sara as his own daughter.

The Doctor thanked Ram Dass, who left the room. Parents who died, leaving the child a penniless orphan — yes, that happened far too often, in every time period. But were Sara's parents human? He had recognized the places in her stories. She could not possibly have known all those little details, not unless she had either been there herself, or had been told. He wondered what species her parents had been.

The Doctor fished the Sonic Screwdriver out of his pocket, and made a quick scan of the house. He checked the results, blinked, then checked them again. He shook the Screwdriver, did another scan, then checked it a third time. Only one alien life-sign detected in the house (himself), but other than that, not a trace of alien genetics or technology anywhere to be found.

Sara was completely human.

His immediate thought he squashed rapidly. The likelihood that someone else had survived the war and had hidden in the same way that the Master had was so incredibly remote that it was almost unthinkable. There were other far more likely reasons for her particular talent. She had been raised, in India, by an Aya. Perhaps she had been raised by an alien, who had told her stories of other worlds that had somehow slipped through into her subconscious. Or perhaps she was simply a very creative human girl who had mild telepathic abilities, and had picked up on the Doctor's stray thoughts while he had been asleep.

He got out of bed, and dressed, checking to make sure that all his various vital organs were still working. The burn on his side was practically healed, and all other vital organs seemed to be in good working order. He was a little surprised by that. Normally, good-hearted humans like these would have raced him off to the nearest hospital and nearly killed him by now. But it appeared that these humans had left him alone to sleep off his injuries.

He had only just stepped out of the room, when he ran into Mr. Carmichael. Mr. Carmichael introduced himself, explaining his role in the Doctor's rescue and his previous associations with Torchwood.

"I do hope that you will forgive us for not offering you medical assistance," said Mr. Carmichael, "but Sara was very insistent. She seemed to be convinced that your heart was perfectly normal. She is still just a little girl, and doesn't realize that some maladies don't show physical symptoms until it is too late." He paused. "I'm terribly sorry. I seem to have gone on at some length without asking your name."

"Oh, I'm the Doctor," said the Doctor.

"Doctor…?"

"Just the Doctor."

Mr. Carmichael thought for a moment. "Undercover for the Yard?" he guessed.

The Doctor gave him a charming smile and a wink. "Don't tell," he whispered.

Mr. Carmichael seemed satisfied with this conclusion. "Well, I'm glad someone's looking into that Torchwood affair," he said. "Nasty business, bludgeoning people on the street. If you ask me, the leaders of that organization have been reading too much Radcliffe. It may tickle your fancy, but in the end, it's all just fiction."

"And does Sara believe in any of that sort of… stuff?" asked the Doctor, scratching the back of his neck.

"Sara is a very sensible and reasonable young lady," said Mr. Carmichael. "She may indulge her imagination, but she certainly knows what is possible and what is not."

"I see," mused the Doctor. Then, to Mr. Carmichael: "How old is she?"

"About eleven, I should think," said Mr. Carmichael.

"Rather mature for a kid of eleven," said the Doctor.

"She always tries to conduct herself like a princess," said Mr. Carmichael. "It makes her seem older than she is. The Princess Sara, her friends call her. Miss Minchin thought her insufferably arrogant, but I believe she's earned the title. She always tries to help those in need — even people she doesn't know, like yourself."

"And you trust her to run off and help strangers?" asked the Doctor. "A little girl of eleven? Running about on the streets of London? Bit dangerous, I should think. 'Specially in this century."

"If there is one thing that is clear about Sara, it is that she knows an awful lot for a girl of eleven," said Mr. Carmichael. "She is the best judge of character I have ever met. If she believes that someone should be trusted, she is always right." He smiled, wistfully. "It's amazing, in its own way. She was always given everything she could ever want as a little girl, and yet she never wanted what was bad for her. You'd think anyone raised like that would be spoiled rotten, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I would," said the Doctor. He frowned, working through the possibilities in his mind. "When she sees — or touches — an object, does she ever get… flashes? Visions? Views of potential timelines? No?"

Mr. Carmichael gave him a sideways smile. "You've been investigating that Torchwood group too long," he said. "You're starting to sound like them."

The Doctor gave a friendly laugh, but listened carefully for the answer.

"Sara's like all little girls," said Mr. Carmichael. "Give her a stick, and she pretends it's a magic wand. Give her a garland and she pretends it's a crown. She calls it 'supposing'. She likes to suppose things about everyone and everything, as if they're all pieces of a fairytale. Amazing imagination, that child. Absolutely extraordinary."

"Absolutely," agreed the Doctor, putting his hands into his pockets. He tried to ignore the disappointment in his hearts. A little bit of him had never stopped hoping that maybe — just maybe —Sara had not been a human child at all. That she had been one of his lot. But clearly, she was just a little human girl. A particularly good natured and imaginative one, but still just human.

Mr. Carmichael laughed. "You should hear the stories she's been telling about you, Doctor. All to do with red grass and trolls trying to break into a magic castle encased in a big glass dome."

The Doctor jumped a mile high. "Sorry, what?" he said.

Mr. Carmichael looked a little concerned. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Oh, no, no, certainly not," said the Doctor, edging towards the door. "Good talking to you. No, not good. Great. Brilliant, in fact. Molto bene! Any idea where Sara is?"

But before Mr. Carmichael had a chance to answer, the Doctor had already left the room.


	3. A Fairy Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you!

The Doctor nearly collided with Sara around the next corridor. "Sara," he said, trying to give her the most cheerful and friendly smile he could. "Lovely to meet you properly. I'm the Doctor. Fancy a bit of a chat?"

Sara tilted her head, regarding him carefully. The Doctor had the unnerving feeling that he was being picked apart by her little brain and analyzed in detail. He wasn't really sure what she'd find, if she analyzed him too deeply.

Sara then smiled, and shook his hand. "I'm Sara Crewe," she said. "Why do you wish to talk to me?"

"Well, I've just had a rather long discussion with a Mr. Carmichael," said the Doctor. "He says you've been telling stories about me. Care to share?"

Sara gave a little blush.

The Doctor immediately stepped back, his hands up, placatingly. "Only if you want," he said quickly. "Not an obligation, not an order, just… a fancy. Well, I say fancy. More of an inclination." A desperate hope, really, but he didn't want to scare her off. "Not trying to upset anyone, though, and definitely not anyone who's just saved my life."

Sara gave him a thoughtful look. "Did I save your life?" she asked. "Would they really have killed you, out there in the street?"

The Doctor was about to deny it outright, the way he normally would with young children, but he caught that gleam of cleverness in Sara's eye, and knew that the best way to get Sara to trust him would be to treat her as if she were an adult. "Probably," he admitted. "Not sure they would have done it immediately, but, well, it's part of their founding charter, you see. Protect Great Britain from alien threats, kill me, et cetera. I'm assuming they'd eventually wind up dissecting me."

"Because you have two hearts?" asked Sara.

"Blimey, nothing gets past you," said the Doctor, a little impressed.

"I heard them beating when I first found you," said Sara. "I thought perhaps you were a fairy, or some other creature from another world. Mr. Carmichael said that you needed a doctor, but I knew it would be a bad idea. So I sat beside you while you slept, to make sure that no one harmed you." A look of mild confusion washed across her face. "The moment I saw you, I just knew I had to protect you. It was as if I recognized you, even though I've never met you before. That is odd, isn't it? It was the same thing I felt when I first saw Emily. Do you know Emily?"

"Emily?" asked the Doctor. "Can't say I do. Someone around here?"

"She's my doll," said Sara. "My papa bought her for me, when I was very small."

"And your papa —?"

"Dead," said Sara.

"Ah," said the Doctor. "I'm sorry."

"Yes," said Sara. "I miss him terribly. But he always loved my stories, and I'm certain he would have loved the one I told about you."

The Doctor was trying to quell the jitters running up and down his spine. "You mean the one about the castle in the big glass dome?" he asked. "Don't want to pry or anything, but sounds like a bit of a nice tale, if you're up for it. Always love a bit of storytelling, me. 'Specially the ones about big glass domes and burnt orange skies." He raised an eyebrow at her.

Sara gave him a curious glance, and a half-smile. She seemed to have noticed the extra detail he'd dropped in, but she didn't comment on it, nor did she negate his assertion that the tale was set beneath an orange sky. The truth was that some of Sara's stories about strangers she met felt so lovely and precious that she didn't want to shatter the possibility that they might be true. This one she had felt was a particularly splendid story, and she had not intended to share it with her new visitor at all. But his additional detail of orange skies seemed so in-keeping with what she had envisioned — even though she had never mentioned it when she'd told the story before — that Sara wondered how he could have guessed. And it was Sara's curiosity that led to her eventual decision.

"If you sit with me in the parlor, I will tell it to you," she said. "But you must promise not to laugh. It's not at all a funny story, and grown-ups ought not to laugh at it."

"Sara," said the Doctor, matching her seriousness with his own. "I promise I will not laugh at your story. Cross my hearts. Both of them."

Sara nodded her approval. "Follow me, then," she said. She led him into the drawing room, where they sat by a warm and cheery fire, the sun flooding into the bright room through large windows. Ram Dass salaamed them as they entered, and told Sara that her Uncle Tom was currently in conversation with Mr. Carmichael and would be with them soon. She thanked him, and he left the room.

The Doctor was trying not to get his hopes up. After all, he'd only just come out of a year-long encounter with a hidden member of his race, and he definitely did not want to repeat the experience. If Sara was actually a Time Lord, the rational part of his brain said, he had to make sure he didn't wind up getting stuck with another psychopath. He might encourage her not to open the watch at all. But another part of him — a far lonelier, more desperate part — didn't even care who it was. He just needed to know there was someone left. That he was not quite alone.

"You are very impatient," Sara noticed. "Are all fairies this impatient?"

"Yeah, not a fairy, actually," said the Doctor. "Just, you know. From another world. Up there." He gestured, vaguely, at the sky, although he supposed he could just as well have been pointing at the ceiling.

"In my story you are," said Sara. "You're a fairy prince."

"Well, seeing as I'm apparently an impatient fairy, I'd better live up to my reputation and beg you to go on," said the Doctor.

Sara gave a small laugh. "In that case, fairy prince," said Sara. "I will." She gazed into the fire, as if drawing her mind into the world she was describing. "Once upon a time, there was a little fairy prince, but he did not grow up in England or in India. He grew up in Fairyland, which has lovely red grass and a magic castle encased in a large, glass dome."

"What did — does — fairyland look like?" asked the Doctor. "I mean, besides the red grass, orange sky, and the… dome."

Sara frowned. "I don't know. I've never really thought about it." She closed her eyes a moment, as if waiting for some inspiration to strike. Then she smiled, and opened her eyes again. "Oh, that is it!" she said. "Precisely."

"Can you describe it, Sara?"

"It is quite pretty, actually," said Sara. "Not that anyone but the little prince noticed. In the moonlight, the entire landscape is cascaded in shadows, each and every detail punched out as if it were sculpted out of obsidian. And then, just over the horizon, you can watch the first sun rising. It lights up the sky, and floods the valley below, making the red grass sparkle with fresh morning dew. It reflects off the silver leaves on the trees, until the sky is so thick with swirls of color, you can almost taste them in the air. And then the second sun rises, and the birds begin to sing, filling the air with the sweetest music, like… like children's laughter. Light and innocent. And that second sun, it picks out all the ice along the tips of the distant red mountains, illuminating each individual snowflake and making every one sparkle upon the valley below. And you can feel the warmth on your face, you see, when you look into the sky. It is that same feeling of warmth you get from an embrace, as if the world itself were —" She stopped, suddenly. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," said the Doctor, and he only noticed then that there were tears in his eyes. He wiped them away, and tried to compose himself. "Yes, Sara. Sorry. It… it sounds very beautiful."

"It is," said Sara, her voice still sounding concerned. "You've been there, too, haven't you?"

"Yes."

Sara thought for a long moment. "You asked me before," she said, carefully; "you asked me, 'what _did_ it look like'. Past tense. It doesn't look like that anymore, does it?"

"No," the Doctor confessed. "It doesn't."

"I'm sorry," Sara offered. She hesitated. "If it makes you upset, I…"

The Doctor waved a dismissive hand at her. "Naw, never mind. Not important," he said. "Long time ago. Lots of pretty places left out there. Go on with the story. I want to hear about the fairy prince."

Sara gave him a look that suggested she could see right through him, but she continued.

She proceeded to tell the Doctor his own story of defeating the Sontarans on Gallifrey, although she called the Sontarans trolls and cut out some of the nastier fighting bits. Perhaps the story had leaked through into her dreams, or maybe it was his own arrival that had prompted this sudden recovery of a Time Lord memory. The Doctor didn't know. But Sara told the story in such flawless detail that he was certain, by the end, that she had heard the story on Gallifrey. That she was not an ordinary human child.

"Sara," said the Doctor, very seriously. "Have you ever considered that your stories might be true?"

Sara thought for a moment. "I like to suppose they are true, sometimes," she said. "It makes life so much more lovely. It helped to do that, back during those dark, terrible days in the attic, when I was all alone."

"You have no family?" asked the Doctor. "You've been alone since you arrived in London?"

"My papa brought me to Miss Minchin's," said Sara. "But he died, and now there is no one. If it were not for dear Uncle Tom, I would have no one in the world."

"But Uncle Tom," guessed the Doctor, "he's not your real uncle?"

"No," said Sara. "He knew my papa. I used to call him 'the Indian Gentleman', before I knew him, but he likes me to call him Uncle Tom."

The Doctor's mind was racing. Could it be that Sara's papa had not been human? That he had dropped her off on Earth, with implanted memories, asking this mysterious 'Uncle Tom' to watch out for her when he was gone?

"Have you ever had anything like… a fob watch?" asked the Doctor. "A broken, gold fob watch, full of astronomical symbols and strange writing and the like. Anything you've had for as long as you can remember, but never really felt inclined to open?"

Sara thought carefully, frowning slightly.

"No," she confessed. "I don't think so." She noticed the disappointment on his face. She wasn't sure why he felt it was so important, but she tried to make him feel better. "But perhaps I am mistaken," she said. "I had so many watches when I was young. I always lose track of time, you see, when I'm thinking very hard, and my papa used to buy them for me. Not that I have ever been inclined to open a watch of any sort. There's so many people whose watches are almost manacles, enslaving them to every second of every minute. I might have broken a few myself, just to be free from it. To be able to pretend I could go anywhere, do anything, and still pop back in time for tea. At least, in my imagination, I can."

"But this fob watch, with the astronomical symbols and whatnot…?" asked the Doctor.

"I don't know," Sara confessed. "I'm sorry."

The Doctor ran a hand through his hair. "Don't suppose you'd mind rummaging through your collection again," he said. "Just to double check? Just… on a whim?"

Sara gave him a sad, resigned look. "They're all gone," she said. "Everything I ever owned was taken away from me, when I became poor. Miss Minchin sold it all — to pay off her debts, she said. Although" — gravely — "she did manage to turn a profit from the endeavor."

"She stole everything?" asked the Doctor. "Every single watch? Every item you ever had? Even things you'd had since birth?"

"Everything," confirmed Sara. "I think… she wanted to punish me. I was never afraid of her, and I know it bothered her, even if she never said. Miss Minchin never really liked me — although I suppose that is partly my fault, because I never really liked her."

The Doctor felt his hearts sink. He might have finally found someone, some lost child from his home who had managed to survive the war, and because of a greedy, self-absorbed human, she was now lost forever. Something like a broken fob watch with a perception filter — there was no chance that even he would be able to find it in the pawn shops of London. "Is there anything that you still have from your childhood?" asked the Doctor. "Anything at all — doesn't have to be a watch. Just any little tidbit or nick-knack you couldn't bear to part with?"

Sara hesitated. "There is Emily," she said.

The Doctor felt his faith renewed. Emily, of course! The doll that her father had given her, just before she had been left in London. The Chameleon-Arch did not just work on watches, although that was the most preferred medium for Time Lord psyches. Perhaps there was some way that the Time Lord Consciousness had been stored inside a doll? After all, Sara had told him something about how he reminded her of Emily. No — that wasn't what she said. She said she'd recognized him the same way she'd recognized Emily.

"Will you show me Emily?" he asked.

Sara saw the hope and excitement in his eyes, his enthusiasm so childlike and bright that she could not help but say yes. She did not usually like to show Emily off to grown-ups, because they never understood what Emily meant to her. But here, she thought, was a grown-up who might understand.

Sara led the Doctor into her room, but the Doctor stopped in the doorway. His eyes widened as he saw the doll, and his face fell. A look of shock, and perhaps mild horror washed across his features. "No," he said. "No, no, no, no, no!"

Do you wonder, reader, what he saw?

There, sitting upon a chair in the center of the room, was one of the most lifelike dolls the Doctor had ever seen. The doll's eyes were a lovely hazel color, and she had long, real eyelashes, not simply ones painted on by an artist. Her blond hair fell down by her shoulders, curling at the tips, and she had softly pouting lips which complimented the expression of fierce hope and determination on her face. For the Doctor, it was a face he knew all too well.

It was Rose.

* * *


	4. Emily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything about Emily's completely true to the book. The bit about being a companion is almost a word-for-word quote. Only thing I changed was Emily's eye color (blue to hazel). Creepy, huh?

"But she didn't… she couldn't… that was after…" sputtered the Doctor. He was not often at a loss for words, but he had never quite found himself in this situation before. He looked back at Sara, thinking of all the worlds she had described – worlds that he had visited. Of the characters she used in her stories – at first, unrecognizable, but now that he reviewed them more carefully, he could see bits of his companions inside of them. The pretty mermaid had shown sparks of Ace's enthusiasm, had shared Zoe's laugh, had spoken a little like Barbara. He thought about Sara's endless curiosity, her need to defend those less fortunate than herself, the wisdom that seemed far too old for her years. And suddenly, it became obvious. Sara Crewe was not a Time Lord.

She was the Doctor.

"But that's impossible!" said the Doctor.

Sara regarded him with her curious green eyes, and the Doctor could practically see the thoughts turning over in her head. Oh, no. This couldn't, _couldn't_ be possible! That he would someday regenerate into a girl – and a prepubescent one, at that – and then lose his Time Lord consciousness and be forced to live out his days as a human. It had to be absolutely, utterly impossible.

"Suppose," said Sara, her eyes lighting up, "suppose that nothing was ever really impossible. Suppose that impossible was just something possible that no one's thought of yet."

The Doctor tried to swallow, as he kept staring at that terribly familiar doll. "You said… you said you knew Emily the moment you saw her," said the Doctor, his voice shaking a little.

"Yes," said Sara. "I told my papa that I was going to make a companion of her. But in the end, I think it went deeper than that. I gave her my heart, you see, and she gave me hers. It was all I had left to give."

The Doctor met Sara's eyes. Oh, she was definitely him. A much better mannered, smaller, female version of him, but definitely him. He thought his legs might give out, and dropped into a waiting chair – one right beside Emily. He stared at the doll again, wondering how someone could possibly have thought to make a doll of a woman who would not be born for nearly a hundred years.

"Are you feeling quite well?" asked Sara.

"No, not really," confessed the Doctor. "Ever had one of those days when you thought you'd got everything all nicely worked out, and then, suddenly, your whole theory comes crashing down around you?"

Sara nodded.

"That's my day," said the Doctor.

Sara frowned. "Because of Emily?" she asked.

"I know her, Sara," he said. "I've met her before. Not the doll, I mean. The person. She's real. She's still out there somewhere. Far, far away. Worlds away." He instinctively took the little doll's hand, as if it really were Rose sitting beside him.

Sara examined the scene in front of her with a haunted, lonely look on her face, a look of loss and isolation that the Doctor knew too well.

"I liked to pretend she was real," Sara confessed, in a quiet little voice. "It was so hard, when there was nothing to eat, and the cook was cross, and I had to trod through mud and dirt all day. But Emily was always there for me, in my darkest hours. Sometimes, it felt as if there was no one in the world except for Emily." She gave a small blush. "I know I am too old for dolls, but if I ever lost Emily…" she trailed off.

"Yes," said the Doctor. "I know."

Sara met his eyes. "You do," she said, and she seemed a little surprised by it. She examined him again, a little more closely, and all of a sudden, her eyes lit up, and she gave him a brilliant smile. "Of course you do," she said, more confidently. "After all, I knew Emily the moment I saw her. And so did you. It only makes sense."

"Sara, do you keep a journal of your dreams?" he asked. "Sketches, stories, anything?"

Sara shook her head. "I can't draw," she confessed. "And I never remember my dreams." Her eyes sparkled, suddenly. "Can you draw?" she asked. "Perhaps you can draw Emily's family. I've so wanted to give Emily a family, but it never quite felt right. Lottie was once her older sister, but now Lottie says she's outgrown it. I hate the idea that Emily might be alone."

She ran to gather a pencil and sketchpad. She handed them over to the Doctor, who felt a little bit put off by having to draw Jackie. But he did so, and in an act of supreme kindness, he drew her looking at least five years younger than she was. "This is Rose – I mean Emily's – mum," he said. Then he drew Pete – the way he was in the other universe. "And that's her dad."

Sara looked at the drawing, considering it very carefully. Then she smiled. "It seems a little silly," she confessed, "that I wasn't able to imagine them myself."

"Do you recognize them?" he asked.

"No," said Sara. She tore the paper from the sketch pad. "But perhaps Emily will. We must show her." She ran over and began to introduce Emily to the picture of Jackie and Pete – as if Sara were conversing with a real person, and not a doll at all.

That was when a rather odd idea popped into the Doctor's head. He was not surprised that Sara could remember only bits and pieces of her own past; he had been the same way back in Farringham, when he was human. But he remembered which images kept popping up in his dreams. It would be futile to try and convince Sara that she was not human herself, but she had the imagination to imagine other worlds and places, and pretend that she was in them. Perhaps, if he could jog a few more memories, he would help her in some small way.

He began drawing the images that he remembered had turned up most often in his dreams, back when he'd been human. He drew a Dalek. He drew the outside of the Tardis. He drew the inside of the Tardis. Then he drew Martha, just for good measure.

Sara had noticed him drawing again, and came to watch. She didn't interrupt, just studied him intently.

When he was done, he showed her the drawings. "Do any of these look familiar, Sara?"

Sara frowned. She pointed at the Police Box. "Is this what a Police Box looks like where you're from?" she asked. "I've seen them before, but they don't look like that."

"No, they don't yet," agreed the Doctor. "Not for another forty years or so. 1960's. Bit of a ways in your future, I know, but do you recognize it? When you look at it, do you feel you know it the same way you did with Emily? With me?"

"No," said Sara.

The Doctor gave a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Guess that's to be expected," he muttered to himself. "Memory fragmentation and whatnot. Human psyche's filtering through the information and extracting only the bits you can use, applying them as landscapes and backdrops inside the imagination. Best thing for it, really. Prevents all that information from causing massive neural implosion." He looked up at Sara, and said, in a louder voice, "Anything you recognize here, then?"

Sara considered the other pictures. Her eyes lit up when she saw Martha. She pointed. "She's quite sad," said Sara.

The Doctor looked down at the picture he had drawn. He had drawn Martha smiling, her eyes full of joy and excitement. "Sad?"

Sara gave an annoyed sigh. "No, that's not what I meant," she said. "Not sad. It's difficult to put into words. Have you ever had that – that rush of feelings and emotions that comes at you out of nowhere, that overwhelming surge of ideas that just will not force its way into language?"

"Well, not into this language," agreed the Doctor. "But Martha – the girl on the paper, I mean – you remember her?"

"I don't _remember_ , exactly," said Sara. "But I recognize her. And I can suppose about her." She stared at the drawing intently, her eyes seeming to wander far away, lingering in the landscapes of her mind. "Suppose that she is in danger. In trouble. Suppose that she is trapped somewhere and unable to get free." She looked over at the Doctor. "Do you know her?"

"Yes," said the Doctor. "She's… well, she's a storyteller, like yourself. Saved a whole planet, once. Brilliant girl."

"Is she all right?" asked Sara, with such genuine worry and fear in her voice that the Doctor could see that she really did care. "Is she safe?"

"Oh, yes," said the Doctor. "Safe and happy, at home, with her family. Large family. Lovely people. Would you like me to draw them, too?"

Sara thought about this a moment, then decided against it. Instead, she pointed at the Dalek. "What's that?"

"That is a Dalek," said the Doctor. He studied her face as he said the name, hoping to see some immediate reaction to the term, but there was nothing. "You don't feel any… overwhelming fury? Sorrow? Fear? No rush of memories or emotions or anything when you see it?"

"No," said Sara. She looked at him, her forehead creasing in concern. "You seem surprised."

"You could say that," the Doctor confessed. The Daleks had been one of the things that haunted his nightmares back in Farringham. Even with full amnesia, he was fairly certain that the name 'Dalek' would still manage to send a shudder up his spine. He gave her a sad smile. "Guess I can't complain. Wouldn't wish them on my worst enemy."

Sara gave him a sudden harsh and disapproving look, a look of such rebuke that the Doctor was actually taken aback. "Do you often wish horrors on your worst enemies?" she asked. "Perhaps that's why they're your enemies. Perhaps if you wished them well, they would be your friends."

The Doctor was tempted to ask her if she'd ever _tried_ to have tea with a Dalek, but knew the argument wouldn't really score him any points. She couldn't remember Daleks or the war, and that was probably for the best.

Feeling slightly chastised, he started to draw some more people. Jack, Astrid, Donna in her wedding dress. He showed Sara the pictures, and he could see that spark of recognition light up in her eyes.

"Yes," she said. "I know her!" She pointed at Donna. "It's like there's some magic that keeps bringing us together. She's…" Sara tried, in vain, to find the right words, but "loud" was the best she could come up with. "I quite like her."

Astrid drew a complete blank.

When she got to Jack, she actually shuddered. "That's very strange," she said. "He looks like rather a nice, amiable sort of gentleman, and yet – I feel as if I want nothing more than to run away from him. Why is that?"

"It's really, really complicated," said the Doctor. "And probably best if I don't say anything, since I believe he's around in this time period. You might even see him, one day."

"Might I?" said Sara. Her voice was filled with hope and a trace of fear. "Might I see him, really? I thought there was something… _wrong_ with him."

The Doctor laughed at this. "Just a bit," the Doctor confessed. "Better not mention that to him. It's sort of a touchy subject."

Sara gave the Doctor a sideways smile, the kind he always gave when he was secretly amused. The Doctor returned it with his own boyish grin.

After a few more sketches, the Doctor began to notice a pattern to what Sara could remember. Sara recognized all his friends and companions – with a few rare exceptions, like Astrid. Yet she remembered none of his enemies, nor any of his traumatic experiences. It was as if she had been given all of his best memories, all his most cherished moments and feelings, and been spared all his heartache and loss. No wonder Sara had turned out so well-tempered! She had been given a universe-worth of love and happiness right from the start, enough to last her through even her darkest days. The Doctor had to admit, it was a good retirement package, if he ever decided to pack it all in, settle down and lead an ordinary, human life. He wondered how his future-self would have managed to accomplish it.

He started to draw his other selves, and she recognized those too, and felt a particular fondness towards them. She very nearly laughed at his having to draw all of these different pictures of what was so obviously the same person, but at the last moment, she stopped herself. She decided that it would be rude to laugh, when her new friend seemed so in earnest.

"Sara," said the Doctor, after this had gone on for quite a while. "Have you wondered why it is that we both seem to remember the same people and events? That we both know the same worlds?"

Sara beamed at him. "I did wonder at first," she said. "But then I worked it out. I've figured out who you really are, and now it all makes sense."

"Have you?" asked the Doctor.

"Yes," said Sara. "You are my character."


	5. An Existential Debate

The Doctor blinked. "What?" he asked.

Sara gave her best apologetic look. "I'm sorry," she said. "I thought you already knew."

"You think I'm fictional?" asked the Doctor.

"Well, yes," said Sara. "It makes sense, you see. Not just because you know Emily. You've grown up in a story. You live and breathe adventure. You know every story as if it were your own experience. And then I thought, suppose — just suppose — that I really _had_ created you inside my mind, and that you somehow came to life. Suppose that you were now able to walk around, and breathe, and live, and that you had come to visit me."

The Doctor shook his head. "No, no, Sara," he said. "These things in your imagination are real. They're really out there. They exist. I'm not… a fictional character. I'm a real person."

"So is Emily," said Sara. "And all the rest. They are just as real as you are."

"And as real as _you_ are, Sara," said the Doctor. "That's my point. They're in the real world. _Your_ real world. Well, about a hundred years in the future, for the most part, but live long enough, and you'll run into them. You can meet them, shake hands with them, talk to them." He paused to catch his breath. He probably should have expected this — after all, it was essentially the same thing that John Smith had said to Martha in Farringham. But the Doctor hadn't realized how much it would sting to hear it in person. After all, it is bad enough meeting a female human future version of yourself; it is far worse to find that your future-self believes, whole heartedly, that you are a fictional character sprung to life. "Look, if I am fictional, how did I get here? Into your world?" he asked.

Sara thought about this. "I don't know," she said. "The Magic must have done it. It must have pulled you out from wherever it is that characters go when they are not living inside a story."

"No, Sara, I — hang about. Magic?"

Sara didn't seem to hear him. "I wonder where that is," she mused. "I wonder where characters go when they are not inside a story. Surely they do not simply pop out of existence. After all, you exist, and I am not telling a story about you at the moment." She pondered the conundrum with real thought. "I suppose you must come from up here," she said, pointing to her own head. "And that's where you'll go, when you're done walking around in the real world. Safe and sound, waiting for the next adventure."

The Doctor fished around the pile of papers they had accumulated. He found the first few images he had drawn, and pointed at the Tardis. "This is where I came from, Sara. It's my home. The Tardis. She's a space ship; the most beautiful space ship in the universe. She brings me anywhere I want. That's how I got here. That's how I get anywhere."

Sara seemed a little surprised. "Do you want me to suppose that you live in a tiny box?" she asked.

"It's bigger on the inside," said the Doctor, defensively.

Sara looked at the pictures again. "If you want me to suppose you into your box, I can try," she offered. "But it doesn't feel right. No one should need to be shut up inside a box. You should be free to fly, like the sparrows."

"The Tardis is my freedom," he said. "She's… it's hard to explain." He sighed. "I wish I could show you."

Sara nodded, slowly. "But you can't?"

"No," said the Doctor. "That would definitely be a bad idea." He knew the Tardis never liked it when there was more than one of him in the ship at the same time. It made her very cranky. He looked back at the doll, who was gazing at the picture of Jackie and Pete that Sara had placed in front of her, and thought about how big and empty the Tardis was at the moment.

Sara noticed. "You're lonely," she observed.

"Yes," admitted the Doctor.

Sara smiled, and took his hand in hers. "Suppose you could stay here, with me and Emily," she said. "Suppose you could have adventures here, and never be lonely again." Her smile faded a hair. "But you wouldn't like that, would you?"

"I'm sorry," he said.

"My papa was like that," said Sara. "He never liked to be still for too long. He always told me the world was filled with new adventures, ready and waiting. He showed me so many splendid things." Her face grew long and sad, her eyes filled with a deep, sharp pain. "I miss him so much. Perhaps that's why I invented you. Because you remind me of him."

Now that was definitely a curveball. He didn't usually put that much detail into the artificial memories in the chameleon-arch. And he didn't think he would have made those memories in any way resemble his own life.

"Sara," called a voice. It was Uncle Tom, watching the two of them from the doorway.

Sara smiled at him. "Hello, Uncle Tom," she said. "Have you met my new friend? He calls himself Doctor."

"Hello," said the Doctor, springing to his feet and shaking Uncle Tom's hand. "Pleased to meet you. I'm the Doctor. Like… Sara said. Just the Doctor. Hope you don't mind the intrusion. Sara was just introducing me to her friend, Emily."

"Oh, yes, we all love Emily," said Uncle Tom. "Such a lifelike doll, don't you think? I believe it is designed to imitate a statue of the Goddess Fortuna at the British Museum." The Doctor stood awkwardly, realizing that this doll was based on a statue that he, himself, had carved. Uncle Tom didn't seem to notice, but went on, oblivious. "Ralph — Sara's father, I mean — thought it was fitting. He hoped that the doll would bring Sara good luck, when she was away at school. He mentioned it, a number of times, when we were in India together. Used to say that Sara was his good luck charm."

"You knew Sara's father, then?" asked the Doctor, an eyebrow raising of its own volition.

"We grew up together," said Uncle Tom. "Best of friends back at Eaton. Mischievous little blighter, he was. Always told me to put away my books and explore the world outside the classroom. Met him again in India a few years back, got him started on a venture he never lived to see the end of. Poor Ralph."

The Doctor's mind was racing through the possibilities. So Sara had a father. Then how…? Why…?

"My dear friend is feeling much better, now," said Sara to Uncle Tom, eager to change the subject. "But he is going to stay with us until he is quite well."

The Doctor gave Sara a sheepish grin. "Well, actually…" he started, but then caught her commanding look, and decided it was better to agree with her. "Yes," he said, gesturing awkwardly. "What she said."

It was, he thought, quite humbling to be bossed around by someone who was only 11 when you were 904. Even if you suspected that that 11 year-old might actually be your future-self in disguise.

This particular conviction of his, however, was growing less and less firm. The more he spoke with Uncle Tom, the more obvious it was that Ralph Crewe, Sara's father, had been a real person. He had married a French woman, who had died in childbirth. Sara had never known her mother, and neither had Uncle Tom, but Ralph had loved his wife dearly, and had often spoken of her when he and Tom had been mining for diamonds in India. Although Sara was now an orphan, it appeared that she'd once had a family, and a human one at that.

So, Sara was not a Time Lord.

She was not the Doctor.

But she shared all of the Doctor's best memories, all his brightest days and happiest moments. She knew about planets that hadn't even been born yet, she could describe suns that she had never seen, and she knew how it felt to swim on a planet with three moons. She shared the Doctor's inescapable curiosity, his faith in human goodness, his love of books and his compassion. She was far cleverer than she ought to be for her age, and demonstrated life experience far in advance of even the adults around her. Yet she was still a perfectly ordinary, eleven-year-old human girl.

So what was Sara?


	6. A Tour Of London

The Doctor knew he really should have left that evening. He knew that Torchwood was waiting for him to slip up, and that he should go before he got this lovely family into far more trouble than they deserved. But curiosity had always been his weakness, just as it had always been Sara's, and the two were far too curious about one another to let each other go. He found Sara, the next day, staring at the pictures he had drawn, lost in thought and determined concentration. She was trying to work it out in her mind, figure out who he was and how their lives fit together.

The Doctor knocked on the door, and Sara started. She spun around and noticed him, and smiled at him excitedly. "Good morning, my dear friend," she said. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," said the Doctor. Now there was another odd thing. She never called him Doctor, not if she could help it. She called him her 'dear friend', and sometimes even 'fairy prince', but never Doctor. He wondered why she never called him by his name. So he asked.

"But it isn't your name," said Sara, as if it was perfectly obvious.

"Well, no," he said. "But it fits well enough."

Sara considered this. "I suppose," she said. "But it seems a shame to call you something so terribly mundane. I feel that with Emily, too, sometimes. I like to suppose that she isn't really Emily, that she has some other, extra secret, special name, even though I know she doesn't." Sara paused. "I wonder if I have a name like that. Do you think I do?"

"Don't know," admitted the Doctor.

"I suppose I would like that," she said. "But I don't think it would be a word. I've often wondered about that. Suppose there are some things too sacred for words. Suppose there are some feelings and emotions that are too deep and pure to ever be shared except in a hopeful smile or a helping hand."

"There are, sometimes," said the Doctor. He knew of a number of telepathic races that shared this belief.

"Are there?" asked Sara. "I'm glad. I try to help as best I can, but sometimes, I feel there's so little I can do, and so much suffering in the world. And on those days when I have nothing left to give, all I have are words. So I tell people stories, and they seem to like them."

"Is that why you tell stories?" asked the Doctor.

"Not exactly," said Sara. There was a far-off gleam in her eyes. "I just want to let them see it! You've seen what it's like, in my stories. You've seen all those beautiful landscapes, all those lovely places and all those wonderful people. Perhaps, if I show enough people how lovely the world can be, they will all be nice to one another. Do you think that's possible?"

"I always try to believe it is," said the Doctor.

"So do I," said Sara. She took his hand in hers, as if he were her companion. "It's a beautiful day, though. We must go out and see! I can show you the bakery where Ann hands out bread to the beggar children, and I can show you the park, where the mother duck herds all her babies along towards the pond."

It truly was a lovely day outside, and Sara showed the Doctor all her favorite spots in London. She showed him all the places she went to help those in need, the ways in which she tried to feed starving children, or warm their spirits with beautiful stories. Her every step was like a dance, her every smile like a ray of sunshine. It was the most optimistic tour of Edwardian London that the Doctor had ever seen.

Sara wasn't quite him, he could see now. There was something else in Sara, something he felt he should know, but couldn't quite work out how.

It was quite a while later, whilst they were traversing the intricate pathways in the park, when the Doctor finally managed to pin down what he found so familiar about the lively little girl beside him. Sara's enthusiasm and love of life reminded him of his own granddaughter, back when they used to travel together. Susan. He remembered Susan. Gone, now. No chance that Sara could be Susan, not when he had watched her die in the Time War. Oh, but he missed Susan! He missed her so much, sometimes, that it physically hurt.

Sara squeezed his hand. "You look sad," she said.

"You remind me of someone," he confessed. "Someone I lost. Someone I miss very much." He paused, and then added, "my granddaughter."

Sara didn't say anything about how he couldn't be old enough to have a granddaughter, nor did she protest that he could never have been domestic enough to have a family. She just hugged him, and said, "I miss my papa that way."

They smiled at each other, and continued on their morning walk, each seeing that they fulfilled some familial need in the other.

But of course, as with everything good in the Doctor's life, it all came crashing down.


	7. Torchwood

It was the female Agent from Torchwood who spotted him first. She was still carrying the enormous and very non-terrestrial gun that scorched any living organic flesh in its path. Highly lethal and certainly dangerous in the wrong hands — and early 20th century Torchwood was definitely the wrong hands.

And my word, could that female Torchwood Agent shout!

"Child murderer!" she shouted, charging up her gun. "Leave the little girl alone!"

The Doctor could see heads turning in his direction, and knew that it wouldn't be long before the shouty female Torchwood Agent would turn the whole crowd against him. Definitely time to run, then. The Doctor gave Sara a last look of farewell, dropped her hand, and legged it. He heard the high toned crack of a shot as it rang out through the air, and he dove out of the way. He hadn't realized they would shoot at him in this dense a crowd. He needed to get away from here. Any stray shot could hit someone, and he didn't want another death on his conscience. He ran as fast as he could, darting around clumps of people, dashing through crowds, pursued all the time by the shouts and occasional gunshots of Torchwood Agents. Eventually, the Doctor made his way to a more abandoned area. He was halfway down an empty street, before he noticed that Sara was still running beside him.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "Get out of here!"

Sara gave him a sudden dark and dangerous look. "I'm not going to let them," she said. "They can't do this. It isn't right."

"Yes, yes, that's lovely and just and good and all sorts," said the Doctor. "But if you don't leave, you're going to get yourself killed."

"And if I do leave, they'll shoot you down without a second thought," said Sara. "I'm the only reason you're still alive. They think nothing of killing you, but they won't shoot a little girl."

The Doctor didn't like it, but he had to admit that she was right. The shooting had stopped, or when it began up again, it was clear that they were no longer aiming at him. He really, really hated Torchwood. Maybe Jack's 21st century version was better, but this — forcing him to endanger the life of a little girl — this was truly despicable. He darted down another alleyway, stopped. Dead end.

He turned back to run the other way, but the Agents were gaining too quickly. He put his hands up in surrender.

"Sara," he said. "Leave, now. Run. If you're here when they take me, they'll take you, too."

Sara seemed puzzled by this. "Why?" she asked. "I'm not from another world."

"Because they know they can get me to do a lot more if they threaten my friends." The Doctor sighed. "Sara, please. Go home. Forget any of this ever happened. Go and live your happy life in a normal house with stories and friends and beans on toast. There's nothing you can do here except make things worse."

Sara gave him a skeptical look, and stayed beside him.

The Torchwood Team encircled the Doctor, pointing their weapons at him. There were more of them, this time — eight, by the Doctor's count — all heavily armed.

"You are the Doctor, is that correct?" demanded the shouty female Torchwood Agent.

"If I said no, would you believe me?" asked the Doctor.

"No," said the shouty female Torchwood Agent.

"Yeah, that's pretty much what I thought," said the Doctor. He gave them a dark look. "Let the girl go, and I'll come quietly. Just leave her alone. That's all I ask."

The three Torchwood agents he'd seen last time, who were all huddled together in front of him, began whispering amongst themselves. Eventually, they broke apart. "Fine," said the shouty woman. "The child can go free."

Sara didn't move.

"Sara," said the Doctor, softly.

"I'm not leaving," said Sara. She didn't sound defiant or angry. She said it quite calmly and simply, and with an inner strength that actually surprised the Torchwood Agents.

"Child, get out of the way," said one of the male Agents. "This alien is hereby under our custody. As a fellow human being, we have no reason to harm you."

"Why are you arresting him?" asked Sara.

"Because he is an enemy of the British Empire," said the shouty female Agent.

"But why?" asked Sara.

The Torchwood Agents looked uneasy. They clearly didn't have a good answer to this.

"I saved Queen Victoria from a Werewolf," the Doctor explained.

"But that's a good thing, isn't it?" asked Sara.

"Sara, sometimes huma — adults shoot at things they don't understand," he said, "because sometimes things are frightening and new and confusing. But you see, if those things are dead, then the problem goes away." He looked over at the Torchwood Agents. "That about sum up the situation here?"

"Doctor, you are charged with the wanton destruction of the British Empire," said the shouty woman.

"Oh, honestly," said the Doctor, "as I was telling you last time, I haven't done anything to Torchwood by this point in history. Couldn't you delay my arrest until I've at least blown up one of your major buildings?"

"If you do not come quietly, then we are prepared to use lethal force," said the shouty woman.

Before the Doctor could say anything, Sara had stepped in front of him.

"He's not going," she said, quite simply and plainly. There was no malice in her voice, no ill will or anger or distaste. Just that hint of inner fire that raged beneath her eyes, and the cool, sure voice of someone who will not take no for an answer. "He has done nothing wrong, and will not, in the future." She added that last bit in with a hard edge, pointedly fixed at the Doctor.

The Doctor figured there was no point in explaining to her that all that speculation about Torchwood's future was in his past. That was time travel for you.

"He cannot help where he was born," continued Sara, back to addressing the Torchwood Agents, "any more than you could help where you were born. It is only an accident, you see, that he is not you and you are not him."

"What lies have you been feeding her?" demanded the shouty woman.

"They are not lies," said Sara, with a bite of anger seeping into her voice. "They are very sensible truths and you should listen to them. You nearly killed that poor lady walking out of the bakery, did you know that? It's not right. What you are doing is wrong, and you should know better."

"It's probably hypnosis or some alien influence," said an Agent standing behind the Doctor.

"She's not important," said the shouty female Agent. "Get her out of the way and take the alien."

Sara glared at them, the fire flaring up in her eyes. "This is your last chance," said Sara. "Stop this and go home, or I'll have to stop you myself."

All the Torchwood Agents hesitated. All, that is, except for the shouty female Torchwood Agent. She put the gun up to her shoulder and fired a shot at the two people in front of her. The Doctor, spotting the movement, shoved Sara out of the way, as the gun struck him in his right shoulder. He hissed in pain, gritting his teeth.

"That wasn't necessary," said the Doctor. "She's just a little girl!"

"Consider it a warning," said the shouty woman, to both Sara and to the Doctor. "We don't take kindly to threats and intimidation." She gestured at the rest of the team. "Round him up. If the girl gives any more trouble, shoot her."

"I'm telling you to leave her alone," the Doctor growled. He tried to do as they said, but Sara had thrown her small arms around him in a desperate hug, and would not let him go. For a thin, eleven-year-old little girl, she was surprisingly strong. The Doctor supposed a few years of hard manual labor would do that to a person.

"Sara," he said, in his gentlest voice. "You have to let go."

She squeezed her eyes shut, and shook her head. He thought, at first, that she might be crying, but upon further inspection, he realized that her brow was furrowed in deep concentration. The Torchwood Agents were poking their guns into his back, and he knew that if he didn't move soon, they'd kill Sara.

Then, without warning, the world around him went wobbly.

The Doctor suddenly felt his head spinning, his entire body crumpling against the cobblestones as the ground seemed to disappear from under him. The world seemed to bend in and out of focus, blurring more and more every time, until….

The Doctor blinked. And then he blinked again.

"What?" he said.


	8. Sara

The Doctor stared at his surroundings. A few seconds ago, he'd been surrounded by Torchwood Agents in an Edwardian London alleyway, about to be arrested and dragged away to their secret headquarters. But then Sara had done something, and now….

Now he was lying on the floor in the console room of the Tardis, with young Sara still hugging him tightly. She opened her eyes, looking around her, and smiled. "There," she said, letting go of the Doctor and getting to her feet. "I knew I could do it."

"What?" asked the Doctor again. He managed to roll onto his good shoulder, then levered himself up into a standing position. He looked around him. It was definitely the console room of his Tardis. "But that's impossible!"

With all the people breaking into his Tardis these days, he wondered if there was some revolving door at the back that he didn't know about.

Sara looked around as well. "Odd," she said. "I didn't think it would look like this." She regarded the central console, thoughtfully. "It looks a little like that sketch you drew."

"How'd you do that?" asked the Doctor.

"I told you," said Sara. "You're my character. I wanted to keep you safe. So I put you away where all characters go when they're not in my stories." She tapped her head. "Up here."

"But this isn't in your head," said the Doctor. He ran to the doors, and opened them a crack, just to make sure. Yes, that was still London outside, same day and time. He could smell the stale fish and fireplace-smoke in the air, could feel the wind on his face. He shut the door, and turned back to Sara. "Sara, you just teleported two people half-way across London and into a temporally shielded location. That's absolutely impossible!"

Sara wasn't paying attention to him anymore. Her eyes were fixed on the time rotor at the center of the room, an odd twinkle igniting in their depths. By the time the Doctor turned around, he found that she had walked up to the central console, and was reaching out to touch it. The Doctor's breath caught in his throat. He ran up to try to stop her from touching anything, but before he'd gotten even halfway, Sara's hand made contact with the console, and the Tardis pulsed with a wave of warmth and recognition.

The Doctor stopped in his tracks, his eyes suddenly wide.

"It's the ship!" he said. He struck his forehead with his hand. "Oh, I'm so thick! You're not me; you're the ship! You're the Tardis!"

It suddenly became so clear to him, all in that single moment. She'd said that she put him away inside herself between the adventures, somewhere safe and protected. Just like the Tardis, in between his trips. He remembered the way that Sara had been able to feel the impression of his companions, but had found it difficult to put that impression into words. And how Sara had felt about Jack — the need to run away from him (all the way to the end of the universe, in fact) ! And Donna — magic pulling them together indeed (more like huon particles)! And then, of course, there was Emily (Rose), who had been more than just a companion — both to him, and to the Tardis. She had looked into the Tardis' heart, and the Tardis had looked into hers. No wonder Sara felt that she had given Emily her heart!

"Am I?" asked Sara. She seemed genuinely puzzled. "Will you explain it to me?"

And so the Doctor did.

He told Sara how his ship was alive, with her own feelings and memories, and how he was linked to his ship so strongly, that it was sometimes hard to tell what was the Tardis and what was the Doctor. He told her about an evil man at the end of the universe, who had stolen his Tardis from him. How the evil man (whom the Doctor called the Master) had ripped the Tardis apart, tearing open her soul, and intending to suck out every bit of happiness and goodness in her. He was going to leave her tortured and in pain for the rest of her existence. He was going to make sure there was nothing left for the Doctor to claim after he was done.

"But you see," said the Doctor, "the Tardis was clever. She knew what the Master planned to do, so she gathered together all of her best memories and thoughts and intentions, and sent them into the mind of a tiny little human infant — oh, must have been eleven years ago, now."

Sara's eyes widened. "Me?"

"Yes," said the Doctor. "Funny, that. I always wondered how the old girl managed to get back on her feet so fast. Guess she had a backup system installed."

Sara was silent for a moment, contemplating this. "I'm not sure how I feel about that," she said. "I have a space ship inside my head."

"Nah," said the Doctor. "You've got the whole universe up there. Imagine it, Sara. All the best parts from all of time and space. Every gorgeous sunset, every gently sloping valley, every beautiful poem ever written, it's all up there. And you can share that with the world. You can show other people how brilliant it is to put aside all the nastiness and violence and sit down and be nice to each other. I show people the universe, but you show them the good in the universe. Isn't that the most important thing?"

Sara pondered the issue. "I suppose," she said, at last, a smile spreading across her face. She looked up at him, a twinkle in her eye. "Does that mean that all those wonderful things I thought up, all those beautiful places in my stories, they're all really out there?"

"Oh, yes!" said the Doctor. "Your stories didn't come to life, Sara. Your stories are life!"

"Can I see them?" asked Sara.

The Doctor hesitated. He looked down at the eleven-year-old girl in the console room, her eyes gleaming with excitement, ready to see the universe. And he knew, then, that he could never take her. She knew all the best parts of the universe; anything he showed her now would just be a letdown.

"I think," said the Doctor, "you already have."

And so the Doctor dropped Sara off at her house, and his magic blue police box faded away into the night. And it was all so surreal and spectacular that no one dared to ask the most obvious question: why, of all the beings across time and space, had the Tardis chosen Sara?


	9. The Magic

The package arrived six months later.

The rest of the household might have forgotten their strange visitor, but Sara never had. The moment she saw that the package was from the Doctor, she tore it open, and examined the object inside.

It was a small, golden fob watch, carved with intricate designs and astronomical symbols. It looked exactly the way the Doctor had described it, all those months ago. Sara remembered the way his eyes had gone so far away and sad, when she'd said she didn't have one. Looking at the watch in her hands, she knew she had been right. She had never had a watch like this.

Sara turned it over in her hands, but the watch didn't seem to be ticking. She opened it, examining its face and inner workings in minute detail. It appeared to have never really been functional in the first place. What a curious thing! Who would build a watch that was meant to be broken? Sara closed it again, and held it very tightly. For some reason, she felt quite sad when she held it.

She showed it to Uncle Tom, and he recognized it immediately. "I don't know how I could have forgotten," he told her. "It was your mother's. Your father carried it around with him, everywhere, after she died. He resolved never to show you, although I don't know why. Said he had an awfully good reason for it, but if he did, he never told me. I do remember he had it, back in India, when we were digging in those mines. Whenever he was lonely, your father would open it. He'd sit there for hours, holding it up to his ear and just listening."

"What was he listening for?" asked Sara.

"He said it was your mother's voice," said Uncle Tom. "He told me that just after your mother died, he'd opened it, and he was certain he heard her speaking to him. He could almost swear she was still alive in there, although his conviction faded over the years."

"Do you think it's a magic watch?" asked Sara.

"If it ever was," said Uncle Tom, "the magic's all gone now. It was gone by the time I met poor Ralph again. He listened for that voice so many times, but it never spoke to him." He gave her a reassuring smile. "But who knows, little Sara? Perhaps you can bring the magic back."

Sara smiled. "Yes," she said. "Perhaps I can."


End file.
